


Money Shot

by nightshiftblues



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Jamilton - Freeform, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn Watching, but it’s more about hating the object of your desires really, frollo-style, internalized homophobia if you squint maybe, slutshaming, whorephobic rhetoric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-03-09 09:31:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13478613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightshiftblues/pseuds/nightshiftblues
Summary: Tolerating Hamilton’s proud condescension towards the lowly mortals who can’t keep up with his Superb Hamiltonian Wit all day long makes it that much more appealing to watch him choke on a dick at the end of the day.- i. e. Jefferson knows about Hamilton’s Secret Porn Past™ and happens to be a terrible person.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is... pretty obvious but I thought of it because of the song $hot by ABRA, which is easily my favourite song about doing porn, would recommend.

At first he pretends he’s not going to do it, like always. Jefferson slams the front door just a little bit too hard, tosses his suit jacket and tie onto the living room floor for the housekeeper to take care of, and locks himself into the gym slash office he has converted his attic into. Blasts music as loud as the speakers allow and doubles his daily fitness routine until sweat dampens the fabric of his shirt and his quivering arms threaten to give out under him.

Useless. Hamilton’s smug, self-righteous eyes burn through the fatigue, the echo of his pingy voice as impervious to his usual methods of tuning things out as ever. He’s still reeling, still so pointlessly and unproductively _pissed_ at this guy who has the nerve to show up out of nowhere, into his territory, and get elevated above his station merely on the merit of favoritism and his ability to keep yapping at people until they give in and let him have his way.

 _Tell me where my shoe fits…_ Thomas rolls onto his back, chest rising and falling erratically and fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

His head turns, almost mechanically, towards the macbook the sits on his desk innocuously.

Thomas bangs the back of his head against the floor boards, the impact greatly cushioned by his hair. Useless. He’d known he was going to do it as soon as Hamilton stepped onto the debating floor and took it upon himself to address Thomas with his Christian name, like they’re equals, like he’s someone Hamilton can talk down to in front of the whole Congress.

_Arrogant impertinent hungry pretty bastard whoreson…_

Thomas gets up, leaves Kendrick Lamar’s latest album to play on a relatively high audio setting and fishes a pair of headphones out of the desk drawer. Usually he doesn’t give a damn whether the help know that he’s jacking off or not, it’s his house that they’re being paid to keep tidy. Usually he’s not ashamed of what he gets off to, either.

He settles into the office chair, starts up his mac, glances over his shoulder to make sure the curtains are drawn like some teen who just discovered porn on the family PC, and clicks to a bookmark titled ‘oatmeal recipes’.

He worries his bottom lip between his teeth as he skims over the options, an anticipatory heat already curling at the pit of his gut. Eventually he settles on one of his personal favorites and clicks play as soon as the video finishes loading.

It’s always a younger version of Hamilton, in his early twenties perhaps going on the peach fuzz. The wicked thrill Jefferson gets from the idea of Hamilton the scrappy immigrant kid resorting to sucking cock on camera to put himself through law school most definitely doesn’t reflect well on his moral character. None of this does, frankly. But he has made peace with it by now, only God alone needs to know of his inner thoughts. And God isn’t doing much to help him deal with Hamilton on a daily basis, so this will have to do.

And it’s Hamilton’s fault, really, for acting so damn high and mighty. Tolerating his proud condescension towards the lowly mortals who can’t keep up with his Superb Hamiltonian Wit all day long makes it that much more appealing to watch him choke on a dick at the end of the day.

Hamilton winks, on his knees on the floor, and leans forward to nuzzle the clothed dick of the person holding the camera. The first person perspective makes Thomas shift in his chair, trying to prevent the immersion from getting under his skin.

It’s always like this. Amateurish, a two-man operation at best. From the timeline Thomas has managed to parse together after a mortifying amount of late night hours spent browsing different sites (Hamilton never even had a porn name, all of his videos are titled ‘LATINO TWINK TAKES A CUM SHOT ON THE FACE’ or something to that effect), it seems like he started out solo, just filming stuff on a subpar web camera in his dorm room, and eventually started to film together with some friend or a boyfriend, whose face is never on camera because they weren’t a total moron. He has probably deleted the videos from the original source, as soon as his political ambitions started to unfold in the latest, but the internet is funny like that.

The person holding the camera reaches out and yanks at Hamilton’s ponytail. The boy keens as his head bends back and the soft skin of his throat is exposed. The technical quality of the videos may be bad, but never the acting. Jefferson buys every bit of the eagerness with which Hamilton pulls down the camera guy’s boxers and leans in to flick his tongue over the tip of the dick, making searing eye contact with the camera. One of Thomas’ hands comes to press down between his legs, just a steady pressure for now to get him going (as if he’s not nearly fully hard already).

The first time had been an accident, of course - Jefferson doesn’t make a habit of scouring the net in pursuit of uncovering his adversaries past careers in the adult film industry. He’d been looking for a quick relief after a particularly tiresome day of campaigning and there Hamilton had been, fitting a pink eight inch vibrator up his ass. Jefferson had slowly closed the laptop, showered and crawled into bed only to wake up painfully hard in an hour or so.

Initially he’d figured it was just one of those instances where you stumble into some really weird porn and pop a boner purely from the novelty of it, but. Well.

Hamilton sinks all the way down to the camera guy’s pubic bone right away like it’s no big deal, like his throat was custom made for cock. His pink, wet lips stretch around it beautifully, his eyes flutter closed and his cheeks turn a brilliant, bright shade of pink as he moans around it, no doubt causing vibrations to run down the shaft if the labored breathing of the camera guy is anything to go by. Jefferson’s hips nudge up to meet his palm and he swallows down a groan. This is revenge, this is him watching that arrogant bitch get put into his place. It’s cathartic, an outlet. He won’t imagine Hamilton there, between his legs, looking up at him between his eyelashes with a mixture of concentration and bliss on his face as his lips mold around Jefferson’s cock, spit dripping down his chin obscenely. He won’t, he won’t, he won’t-

“Mmh, baby, you take it so well,” says the voice off-camera and Alexander lets out a high-pitched whine. His face lacks that guardedness that it has nowadays, he seems more vulnerable, almost tender. In that hungry way that seems inherent to Hamilton’s very being. The hand in his hair pulls his head back and Hamilton pants with his mouth open, tongue hanging out slightly, still looking straight into the camera almost pleadingly. Fuck.

“Can I fuck your face, baby?” The camera-guy asks.

“Please,” Hamilton pants. “I need your cock, please use me.”

Thomas’ hands rush to undo his fly and he clumsily pulls his dick out of his boxers. He spits on his palm and starts to stroke himself in tandem with the pace the guy on the video thrusts his cock into Hamilton’s eager, open mouth.

Hamilton’s eyes are wet with tears and his hair is a mess and he somehow manages to moan with a mouthful of cock because of course he does. Thomas doesn’t slow down or savor this because there’s nothing _nice_ about this, he just moves his unyielding grip up and down his length and he-

He twists his hand in Hamilton’s hair and thrusts his hips into that wet, impossibly hot little mouth and Hamilton gags because Jefferson is bigger than what’s-his-face but he doesn’t care because it’s about time Hamilton finally owns up to all that big talk about his oratory abilities, and secretly he loves it anyway, looks up at Jefferson with a needy, unfocused look in his teary eyes and swallows around him just to show that he can, because deep down he wants Thomas to see him, wants him to-

“Bastard, whore, slut,” Jefferson growls between his teeth as he twists his wrist and his insides clench and everything goes blank in a violent sort of flash of white. He makes a weak attempt to reach for the box of tissues on his desk but it’s too late, white strings of cum fly across Hamilton’s eager open-mouthed face and over Jefferson’s pressed work pants and, impressively, his keyboard. He curses quietly and slumps back in his chair, chest rising and falling even more erratically than after his earlier impromptu workout session.

Well. He does feel a lot calmer now. The aftershocks of the orgasm are rendering his muscles lax even as shame attempts to make a nest in his gut. He has nothing to be ashamed of, Hamilton’s the one who threw away his pride and virtue in pursuit of money all those years ago. Thomas closes the tab, deletes his browser history and peels off his pants with a grimace.

He could wait for the peak of Hamilton’s career just to destroy it, probably along with his marriage too. He could single handedly define how Hamilton would be remembered, defile his precious legacy with a few clicks.

In all likeliness he won’t, though. For one, he’ll revel in crushing his opponent without resorting to dirty tricks - Washington won’t be there to watch over his favorite son forever, after all. But most of all, Thomas probably couldn’t give up that particular brand of satisfaction in looking at Hamilton during one of his impassioned speeches in congress, proudly drawn into his full (still modest) height, and being the only one who _knows._

He might tell Hamilton himself one day, if he somehow manages to get even cockier than he already is, but for the time being Jefferson will keep this to himself.

It’s just a harmless outlet for stress, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I’m gonna write something with an actual plot like any day now.
> 
> Catch me on [the tumble](https://nightshiftblues.tumblr.com/).


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Right away, Jefferson dislikes this John Laurens-guy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I SAID this would be a oneshot and it’s been like ten years but you know how it be sometimes. Shoutout to the commenters on the 1st chapter, you are mostly to blame for this.

It’s an unremarkable Tuesday afternoon. Congress isn’t even in session yet, two thirds of the seats being empty and idle chatter filling the room, but Hamilton is already reeling. He’s flails his arms around, going on and on about how he has the support of the senate and the President and whatnot, his mouth running like an AK-47. Jefferson isn’t really listening; he leans his hips to the side with a slight smirk twisting his lips and watches how frustration dyes Hamilton’s olive cheeks a bright shade of crimson, how his back bends into a subtle slope as he unconsciously leans towards Jefferson over the flimsy table separating them. How his lips move, a supple softness contrasting the vitriol of the words he spits out. It’s a coping mechanism of sorts, finding these details in Hamilton’s physique as he runs his mouth. A necessary tool for dealing with the man.

“Yo, Alex!”

And then it all changes. The moment _that man_ bursts in like he belongs, Hamilton’s dark eyes lose their fire and snap away from Thomas - in fact, the second he spots the grinning man at the top of the stairs leading to the congress floor, he seems to forget Jefferson is even in the room.

Hamilton spins on his heels and half-runs to meet the guy. The stranger seems to be around the same age as Hamilton, though he’s clearly more invested in keeping fit if the lean, toned frame is anything to go by. A mess of honey-brown curls reaches his shoulders, framing a freckled face split into an excited grin. As soon as Hamilton is at an arm’s reach, the guy grabs his shirt by the lapel and yanks him into a warm, shoulder-slapping hug.

Hamilton’s voice is exhilarated and slightly breathless. “John! What the hell are you doing here?”

Not taking his eyes off the exchange, Jefferson backs up and drops into a chair next to Madison. “Who’s that?”

“Hm?” James glances up from the stack of papers he’s arranging into a meticulous pile. “The guy talking to Hamilton? That’s Henry Laurens’ son.”

Jefferson’s eyebrows shoot up. “The South Carolina senator Henry Laurens?”

“The very one,” Madison shrugs.

“Huh.”

Right away, Jefferson dislikes this John Laurens-guy. It’s quite unlike that instinctual sense of distaste he’d felt towards Hamilton when Washington first introduced them (initially, he’d been willing to give the guy a chance despite of his badly tailored suit and unprofessional haircut). No, this is different. This is a visceral, primal kind of a loathing he felt the second that voice rang across the room. Jefferson can’t explain it or rationalize it, but it only simmers hotter and hotter somewhere deep in his chest as he watches the guy thread into Hamilton’s space with a careless ease. There has to be some reason for it. _How do I know him?_

Annoyed at his inability to place the guy, Jefferson digs his phone out of his breast pocket, opens a tab in incognito mode and taps ‘ _john laurens’_ into the Google search bar.

_Youngest Amnesty International Representative From South Carolina,_ says the first headline that pops up.

“Not a politician like his daddy, huh?” Jefferson mutters and scrolls on.

“No, apparently things are pretty tense on that front,” Madison says. The useful thing about the guy is that he’s above caring about rumors, but not above listening for them and carefully filing them away for future use.

Jefferson keeps looking. Laurens was active in a myriad of social movements and protests during his earlier years, now spends most of his time advocating for civil rights in third world countries. It all explains why Hamilton (the bleeding-heart liberal) gets along with him, but it brings Jefferson no closer to discovering the link to himself. Laurens’ laughter carries all the way across the room and Hamilton smiles with his full set of teeth while Jefferson grinds his own together. There has to be _something._

“Why are you looking at his LinkedIn?” Madison asks, peering over Jefferson’s shoulder.

“He looks familiar,” he grunts, hoping against hope his colleague will be satisfied with that. James knows it bugs him when he can’t figure something or someone out right away.

_Education: Columbia University (Sociology and Political Science, grad. 1998)._ So he went to college with Hamilton. That still doesn’t explain-

Jefferson freezes just as he’s about to tap back to the search result page.

College.

Hamilton.

_A young, fresh-faced Hamilton in the most stereotypical college dorm room imaginable with yellow hideous wallpaper and a pile of laundry in the corner, riding a cock on an unmade bed, rocking his narrow hips slowly until his mouth falls open and his eyes roll back, and a pair of disembodied tanned hands littered with specks of dark gripping him with thumbs rubbing at the hollows of his hip bones while a slightly high-pitched voice with a carefully concealed hint of a Southern drawl lurking underneath tells him “you gotta be quiet, you gotta be sweet and quiet babygirl, that’s it, you’re riding it so well, you look so good right now.”_

Jefferson doesn’t know how he knows but he _knows._

“Imma let you do your job now, saving the economy and whatnot,” Laurens slaps Hamilton’s bicep and tugs at the shoulder strap of his bag with a toothy grin. “Tonight at seven, right?”

“You should come over first, say hi to Eliza,” Hamilton smiles.

“Nah,” Laurens rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t think she’s that fond of me nowadays, either. Tell her I said hi, though. And the kids.” Thomas barely suppresses his snort.

The rest of the exchange is obscured by the bustle of the gradually filling congress hall.

Madison taps on Jefferson’s elbow with two fingers. “Do you have your notes ready?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters and watches as Laurens and Hamilton exchange another sincere-looking hug, laugh at some parting remark, and finally separate. Madison sighs silently, knowing Thomas’ reply means he’s going to wing his own turn to speak if it comes to that. He speaks better without a script, anyway.

Washington takes his place at the front of the room and Hamilton shoots Jefferson one last dirty look before taking his own place like the middle schooler he is. Jefferson winks at him and reclines as far back as his seat allows him.

Unsurprisingly, Hamilton is the first to seize the floor. The speech is as good as lost on Jefferson; he has more interesting things to mull over than public school art program budgets.

He idly traces the impassioned set of Hamilton’s shoulders with his gaze and thinks. John Laurens comes from old money, and yet in college he decided to help his boyfriend out financially by… making porn with him? The narrative just isn’t lining up. The reek of desperation may cling to Hamilton even now that he can afford lavish colognes to cover it up, but rich Southern boys don’t resort to earning pocket money in the adult film industry - Jefferson would know.

Something Madison had said just a moment ago sticks to his mind - _‘apparently things are pretty tense on that front’._ He presses the tip of his pen into the corner of his mouth and leans to the side contemplatively, Hamilton’s speech mere background hum to his thoughts. Jefferson has never met Henry Laurens personally, save for shaking hands in passing at a fundraiser or two, but the man doesn’t exactly strike him as the lenient type. Maybe daddy’s wallet’s drawstrings tightened up after his son’s humanistic choice of major, not to mention his immigrant college boyfriend.

The more Jefferson thinks about it, the clearer the emerging picture becomes. The disgraced son of a conservative politician and a scrappy immigrant kid willing to do anything for an education, banding together to make ends meet.

Adorable.

Hamilton finishes and Jefferson doesn’t claim the floor, ignoring Madison’s elbow nudge. His party can’t expect him to do all the heavy lifting. He has an endgame to forge. Someone else takes the stage and Hamilton’s face whips to Jefferson, eyes narrowing in suspicious disbelief. Jefferson purposefully ignores him, pretends to nod along to whatever his fellow Republican is saying to counter Hamilton’s contrived arguments.

Jefferson wants to destroy Hamilton. He does. Up to this point, the porn just wasn’t a part of it - it was just a means for his personal satisfaction, something to keep him warm and help him bide his time no matter how aggravating his adversary would get.

But now there’s a sense of urgency brewing under his skin, an impatient resentment that Laurens unknowingly ignited the second he appeared before him. His easy laughter echoes through Jefferson’s mind, mixed in with Hamilton’s. It’s unbearable that they get to strut around congress after what they’ve done, all easy smiles and playful quips. Now that Jefferson thinks about it, it’s completely senseless that all this time he’s been sitting on irrefutable evidence of Hamilton’s vile past and letting the man _get away with it._ And for what?

“And this concludes today’s session, thank you for your attendance ladies and gentlemen,” the baritone of Washington’s voice jolts Thomas into action.

“Thomas, what was that about?” Madison says with a lowered voice as he flings his things into his suitcase.

“I’m not feeling too well today,” Jefferson hums and bumps Madison’s arm with his fist lightly. “We’ll get ‘em next time.”

Madison seems at a total loss for words, and Jefferson slips away before he manages to collect himself. He just saw a certain ponytail disappear through the heavy double-doors at the end of the room.

Jefferson catches up to Hamilton at an empty corridor in the east wing. In all honesty, he hardly has a plan aside from the burning need to wipe off that fond smile lifted to his face by Laurens, permanently if possible. Jefferson thinks it best not to dig too deeply into the source of this unexpected fire under his skin. He needs to steel his resolve to pull this off, since there will definitely not be turning back from whatever he’s about to do. Excitement surges through his blood along with the loathing and the determination as he approaches Hamilton’s back with every stride of his long legs.

Perhaps Hamilton recognizes his cologne, or the pattern of his steps, since his face is already contorted with annoyance as he whips around.

“What? If you have something to say to me, you should have said it on the floor,” he snaps and crosses his arms. Jefferson feels a twinge of delight at that, the extremely visible annoyance on Hamilton’s face at not being engaged with, at being ignored. _Always needing everyone’s eyes on him no matter what._

That would change.

“I was saving it for a meeting we’re gonna have, tonight,” Jefferson says with a canine-exposing smile. “The Olive Garden at Crossroads, seven o’clock.”

Hamilton’s eyebrows shoot up and he gapes for a moment, visibly thrown off. Eventually he collects himself, spine stiffening. “If you want to set up a meeting, you’re free to contact my secretary. And anyway, I’m busy tonight,” he says, cold venom seeping into every word.

There are only a few steps separating them now. Jefferson leans his shoulder to the wall and crosses his arms as well, though more casually than Hamilton. “No, you won’t.”

“This is ridiculous,” Hamilton scoffs and shifts as if he’s about to turn around and stride off. Thomas raises a single finger and digs his phone out of his breast pocket.

“Hold on, now.”

He opens his saved files, his heart thumping faster than he would care to admit, finds a folder titled ‘receipts’ and scrolls down a pageful of pictures of random purchase confirmations until he finds a video at the bottom, the one that gets the job done whenever Thomas is too aggravated to go home to work out his frustrations. He taps play.

His phone is muted for congress, but he can still practically hear the drawn-out _aah’s_ and _I’m so close’s_ and the faint buzzing of a vibrator in the background as he hands the phone to Hamilton.

Hamilton’s hand snaps towards the phone but freezes and retreats before he gets a hold of it. His face goes slack and pale, then flushes a bright, mortified shade of pink. He blinks a few times and his gaze darts from the phone screen to Thomas, then back to the phone screen.

“Th-that’s, that’s not…” Hamilton licks his lips and clears his throat. “What’s that supposed to be? Why would you show me that?”

Thomas smiles and tucks the phone back into his pockets. Hamilton’s feigning nonchalance now, but his eyes follow the movement, transfixed.

“I’ll see you at seven.” He turns on his heels and starts down the hallway.

“Jefferson, wait!”

“Don’t be late,” he calls over his shoulder.

Hamilton catches up with him quick, fingers wrapping around Jefferson’s sleeve at his elbow, tight as a vice. He looks down at Hamilton’s face, large panicked eyes looking up at him at an unusually close range.

“You can’t do this, I have a _family,”_ he hisses between his teeth. On his face is written every emotion Jefferson has imagined would be there when he has toyed with this scenario in mind, and then some. Fury. Desperation. Urgency. _Heat._ It feels like he’s holding Hamilton’s precious legacy on the top of his palm, or under the sole of his boot perhaps, and it feels _good_ in a way it probably shouldn’t to have that searing focus thrown at him all at once. The fingers clutching the precious fabric of Jefferson’s jacket tremble slightly.

_You need to stop this,_ some cautionary voice whispers at the back of Thomas’ mind. Maybe it’s whatever’s left of his conscience. _You need to stop this before you get drunk on this power. Before you start to need this._

Jefferson silences the voice; he’s come too far to back down now. Unlike Hamilton, he hasn’t done anything wrong.

Yet, anyway.

“Olive Garden. Seven PM,” he repeats and yanks his sleeve out of the other man’s grip.

Hamilton doesn’t chase after him; from the sound of it he slumps down onto a bench on the hallway. Jefferson keeps walking and walking, it feels like he’s going to burst with the energy flowing through his limbs. There’s a dull roar in his head. It’s all just a single huge adrenaline-soaked mess. The victory. The irritation still lingering from listening to John Laurens’ nasally voice. The idea of the open-faced, debauched college-version of Hamilton morphing into one with the distinguished, proud politician.

Thomas stumbles into some (thankfully empty) men’s room and flings cold tap water at his face. The dark eyes that stare back at him in the mirror are on the hungry side of unreadable. He lets out a quiet huff. _What am I doing?_

Seems like the more time he spends around Hamilton, the less he’s able to predict his own behavior. Even though, now that he thinks about it, Jefferson’s the one with all the power in this situation. For _once._

A slow smile starts to creep over his features.

This should be fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Catch me on [the tumble](https://nightshiftblues.tumblr.com/).


End file.
